


Aftermath

by Phoenixflames12



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 10:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15795117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: 10th May 1998Percy tries to come to terms with Fred Weasley's death





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first full Harry Potter fanfic in about seven years, so if anything is rusty, please forgive me!

Aftermath

**_10 th May 1998_ **

 

A young man with a thin face, a shock of red hair and wide, blue eyes behind horn rimmed spectacles sits at the corner table in the café, staring without seeing into the depths of his mug.

 

His reflection flickers up at him, catching against the incremental flashes of light that fall across his path from the high windows, the ghosts of stubble that is threatening to turn into a full beard hugging his jaw.

 

Taunting him.

 

A wand lies next to the mug, but he cannot look at it.

 

Cannot see it without hearing the screams, the world crashing to the ground, spinning in free-fall as he had heaved himself onto his hands and knees, body aching from the impact of whatever curse had hit him.

 

His heart shattering anew at the sight of Fred’s body lying across the rubble, the ghost of his last laugh flickering across that pale, handsome face that had never remained still.

 

‘Perce?’

 

A hand on his shoulder.

 

Another face, haggard and haunted, the ghosts of unspeakable horrors etched like ink across the high, fine cheekbones, swims in and out of his line of vision, fragmenting into a thousand tiny pieces through the cracked lenses of his glasses.

 

‘You OK, mate?’

 

The hand tightening on his shoulder, fingers digging lightly into the fabric of his jacket, his sweat stained shirt sticking to his skin as if it has become a part of him.

 

He has barely slept since the Battle.

 

Has not returned home to the Burrow with the rest of the family, because the Burrow has not been a home for him since he walked out in a fit of unprecedented, useless rage, all those years ago, when the full impact of the war and its’ consequences, of his parents’ and siblings’ involvement, was still in its’ infancy.

_Dear God, Fred…_

_A flash of green light blinding against his eyes, his brother’s laugh ringing through his ears as he played Pius Thicknesse like a fiddle, the impact of an unseen curse knocking him against a suit of armour, miraculously still standing despite the chaos._

_A sudden, deafening scream._

_The weight of his brothers’ jumper cold against the still, narrow chest, lifeless without that lifegiving heart thudding beneath the wool, a trickle of blood marring the smile that now he would give anything to see again._

_Ron, who would wake screaming in the night, begging over and over again for a forgiveness that he did not know how to give._

_George whose missing ear still glared up at him like a black hole, even though the wound had fully healed, closed over with fresh, new skin._

_Bill’s face scarred against the claws of Fenrir Greyback, his eldest brother, the one to whom he had always followed, always admired beyond all things, still bravely smiling despite the pain._

_Charlie, who would wander through the rooms of the Burrow like a man lost, face pale and anguished at the years lost to them._

_Ginny who would sit up all night to avoid going to bed, avoid being lost to the nightmares that gripped them all like some great, invisible terror that is not invisible at all._

_His Mother who, according to George, would often be found standing alone in the kitchen, one place too many set at an empty table, a half-washed cup held between suddenly nerveless hands, a half formed name falling against silent lips before she remembered._

_‘Fred?’_

_George’s hands holding hers, steadying her grip, guiding the cup back to the drying rack, both their eyes glistening with unshed tears as the unspoken words hang in the silence._

_‘It’s not Fred, Mum. It’s… It’s George.’_

_His Father, locking himself away for days in the shed, trying to find an ounce of comfort in the complexity and absurdity of his Muggle gadgets, his face as drawn and haggard as the rest of them, the fiery sparkle that Percy remembers from his childhood and early adolescence all but extinguished._

He has not changed his shirt since the battle, almost ten days ago.

 

The fabric clings to him, the smell of stale sweat and smoke that is still strippled with blood encasing his body like a cloak.

 

‘Percy?’

 

Slowly, he returns the pressure, the warm weight of his brothers’ hand flooding through him, grounding him to reality.

 

A deep, shuddering breath echoes through his lungs and he nods slowly, holding the haunted eyes that hold a guttering ember of their old mischief, a small smile cracking at the corner of his lips.

 

* * *

_**Fin** _

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
> 
> Much love and enjoy x


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